


Jump Start

by Kerkerian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blame setlock, Deviates From Canon, Fix-It of Sorts, Friends to Lovers, M/M, No Mary, Post-Reichenbach, the tub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 22:12:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7379404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerkerian/pseuds/Kerkerian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's return, things are slowly getting back to normal- if only that was what everybody wanted. Luckily though, the winter is rather cold...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jump Start

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.
> 
> This story came into being simply because of the ongoing setlock debate about whether Sherlock and John will finally end up together in S4, and setlock in general of course (nervously bites nails). I entirely trust the Mofftiss that whatever they'll do will be great, but I still needed something like this, so here goes, lots of tropes and stuff included, short and hopefully sweet. Enjoy!

 

Of all the cold days in January Sherlock Holmes chose one on which it was actually freezing to fall into the Thames. To be accurate, the term “fall” didn't really apply this time, since Sherlock jumped in on purpose, or rather, intended to land on a boat but misjudged the distance, something John Watson didn't intend to let him forget about so soon. He was already telling Sherlock off in the police car which took them home, all the way from the docks to Baker Street, and Sherlock, try as he might, didn't manage to ignore him as he usually would have because all his energy went into concentrating on what little warmth the emergency blanket around him and John's jacket on top of that were providing. He could barely feel his hands and feet, and much to his chagrin, his teeth were actually chattering.

Once they stopped in front of 221B, John climbed out of the car immediately, then watched with a frown as Sherlock unsuccessfully struggled to open the seat belt with his numb fingers.

“You're unbelievable,” the doctor eventually muttered and bent over the detective to help him. Sherlock did his best to glare at him, but even his face felt frozen.

“We g-got them, d-d-didn't we?” he managed because he felt a bit of defiance was required.

“Yes, but that didn't have anything to do with your stunt but rather with the fact that Lestrade had already informed the river police!” John's anger didn't seem to have diminished one bit, despite the prolonged ranting in the car. Rather ungently, he pulled Sherlock to his feet, nodded his thanks to the police officer who handed him a rather heavy bag with Sherlock's sodden coat and didn't let go of Sherlock until they were inside. For the first time in months, though, touching Sherlock didn't stir up anything in him.

 

Mrs Hudson almost dropped her feather duster at the sight of her tenant: “Sherlock! What did you do?”

“Wh-wh-why d-d-do p-p-people au-automatically ass-assume it w-was m-m-my f-f-fault?” he all but snapped. Rolling his eyes, John pushed him towards the stairs: “He had a swim in the Thames. Excuse us, he needs to get out of the wet clothes.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs Hudson called after them, “I'll make some soup, shall I?”

“That'd be fab, Mrs Hudson,” John replied loudly, ignoring Sherlock's indignant groan. In their flat, he steered him straight to the bathroom: “Get out of your clothes, I'll run a hot bath for you.”

“Wh-where's m-my c-c-coat?”

“I'll take care of it, don't worry.” John carefully adjusted the water's temperature, then went into Sherlock's bedroom to crank up the radiator. He shook the coat out of the bag and spread it out on a laundry rack in the living room. After a moment of deliberation, he put some towels on the floor underneath it, since it was dripping, and lit a fire in the fireplace.

Only then did he pause for a moment, taking a deep breath; maybe he had overreacted a bit. Maybe it hadn't been necessary to rail and shout at Sherlock as he had in the cab. And yet- even though the situation had been dealt with so quickly that it could hardly be called life-threatening, John's heart had positively stopped for a moment when Sherlock had jumped and subsequently disappeared in the water. It was all too familiar, the numbing rush of adrenaline, the disbelief. He didn't even know if Sherlock could swim. Unthinkingly, he had rushed forward and would have jumped in after Sherlock if Lestrade hadn't gotten hold of him. At the same moment, Sherlock had surfaced and John had begun to shake with relief and anger. Of course Sherlock wouldn't have drowned, he told himself, despite the heavy coat and the cold water. Furthermore, Sherlock would have done the same before his fake suicide, he hadn't changed in that regard. It was John who had a hard time dealing with it, and he chided himself for being such a drama queen. The anger prevailed nevertheless.

 

When he returned to the bathroom, Sherlock had shed his clothes and stood wrapped in a large towel, still shivering rather violently, waiting for the tub to fill up. The sight of him, all skin and bones even after a year of Mrs Hudson's care, hunched in on himself and looking like a drowned rat- _no_ , puppy, went directly to John's heart. The bastard, of course he'd manage to charm John's annoyance away somehow. And the butterflies were back.

“I'll make some tea,” he said with a gentler voice.

He spiked the tea with a shot of rum, then took the mug into the bathroom; Sherlock had meanwhile climbed into the tub. John pulled the clothes chair up to the tub and sat down on it, handing Sherlock the mug: “Here, it'll help.”

The detective accepted it mutely, wrapping both hands around it; it took a while until the trembling had stopped entirely and a bit of colour returned to his pale face. His lovely face.

“You don't have to stay here,” he said after a while.

“Oh, I'd rather keep an eye on you.” John gave him a stern look.

“Why were you so angry with me?”

“Were?”

“You seem calmer now.”

John shook his head, trying not to smile. “Can't you deduce it?”

“You thought I might get hurt.”

“Close, but not quite.”

Sherlock remained silent. He looked tired now and something else. Sad, maybe.

John leaned forward, elbows on his knees; it would have been easy to touch Sherlock, who appeared altogether too vulnerable in his nakedness, making John feel protective of him rather than desirous right then and reminding him just why he had been so furious earlier: “I want you to be more careful,” he said quietly. “Less reckless abandon, more consideration. For me, Sherlock. After all that happened, I just can't watch you doing stuff like this anymore.”

Instead of an answer, Sherlock looked at the now empty mug in his hands, slowly pressing it under water and watching it sink.

“I see,” he eventually murmured, so softly it was barely audible.

John wasn't sure that he really did; he had apologized to John after explaining how he had tricked Moriarty's snipers, and again after John had physically expressed his enragement, and again a few weeks later when they had gotten drunk together after a prolonged shouting match. The night the butterflies had appeared for the first time after Sherlock's return.

“Now that I've gotten you back,” John tried to elaborate, “I can't bear the thought of losing you ever again.” He looked at Sherlock almost timidly, feeling naked himself, but there was no going back: “I need you with me, Sherlock.”

At that, Sherlock smiled a little, finally meeting John's gaze, and at once all the butterflies were back in full flight, making John's knees weak. He felt his ears redden, but he didn't look away from Sherlock's scrutiny; maybe this afternoon had meant to be a turning point, a signal for him to stop being a coward. He had spent countless hours lying awake in the night, mulling this over; he couldn't deny himself his feelings for Sherlock any longer, not now that his friend was back from the dead. But what if Sherlock found out and recoiled? What if it destroyed everything? A small part of John kept protesting that Sherlock wasn't as small-minded as that, on the contrary: he'd probably handle the situation with more grace than John was granting him. And yet John had his doubts, therefore he had tried to contain his emotions and carried on as usual, which albeit became increasingly difficult every day. And now this. He was tired of pretending, if he was honest with himself; hang the consequences.

Sherlock's voice pulled him out of his thoughts: “My darling John,” Sherlock said as softly as before but with audible affection, averting his gaze afterwards, his shoulders tensing visibly. “I think I should get out now. The water is getting cold.”

Confused and also inexplicably pleased, John handed Sherlock the towel, then went into the living room to stoke the fire and turn on a few lights; it had meanwhile gotten dark outside. His mind was reeling with all the possible implications of Sherlock's words and whatever else he _hadn't_ said.

He wandered into the kitchen and looked into the fridge; they'd missed tea, and he felt vaguely peckish. On the other hand, he was far too jittery for something so... mundane. Hadn't the earth just turned twice in a minute?

When Mrs Hudson brought up the soup a few minutes later, John was still standing in front of the sink without having come to a decision.

 

After drying himself off, Sherlock put on his blue dressing gown and sat down on his bed. He felt warmer now, if agitated. John hadn't taken his return and the realization that his friend's suicide had been a fake lightly, and it had taken a while for him to truly forgive Sherlock. He had felt too betrayed, too left out. It had been a difficult first half year, but during the past few months, he had begun to accompany Sherlock on cases again. The detective was relieved and even happy about it; he hadn't by any means expected John to react as he did earlier though.

If he was honest, Sherlock had to admit that maybe he was showing off a little more whenever his friend was with him because somehow, basking in the glow of John's admiration was preferable to anything else, though showing off wasn't necessarily what he had intended today. Thank God Mycroft hadn't been there, Sherlock'd never hear the end about it, if only teasingly.

But John didn't think it was a laughing matter; to him, Sherlock's well-being was more valuable than the detective could comprehend.

“I need you with me,” he had said, and a delicate shudder had run down Sherlock's spine. During the time he was travelling to take down Moriarty's web, he had missed John like he had never missed anyone before, except maybe Redbeard. There were moments during which it was particularly bad, for example when something reminded him of John all of sudden; the trigger could be a scent or a fabric or just a word. It had made Sherlock look at John differently once he had come back, and the longing he felt for the man who was his best friend in the world made it much more difficult to handle things; he had to keep it to himself if he didn't want to lose John, especially after the doctor had learned about what Sherlock had done: he didn't dare risk it.

And now Sherlock's knees felt like jelly because the situation in the bathroom had been rather unambiguous but also very dizzying. It wasn't the first time that he had realized how strongly John was really feeling for him, but it had been the first time that John had shown it so openly, and even though Sherlock had pondered the situation rather a lot lately, he still had no way of being adequately prepared.

 

He hadn't quite found his bearings yet when there was a knock on the door and John opened it, peering in: “Are you all right?” he asked, and his posture told Sherlock that he wasn't entirely comfortable himself.

Sherlock, bereft of words for a change, simply reached out with his hand. He was trembling again if not from the cold this time, but somehow, it felt like the right thing to do.

Almost timidly, John came in and after a moment of hesitation, took Sherlock's hand. The detective pulled him closer until he sat down next to him, and for a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

“I need you too,” Sherlock eventually said softly. “I didn't think I'd need anyone until we met, but you made me care. You made me feel so loved without it being any effort.”

John's heart was beating in his throat. He felt Sherlock squeeze his hand ever so cautiously. The detective looked at their joined hands now, face still pale, ears rather red, and John couldn't but smile. He raised their hands and pressed a kiss on Sherlock's, almost painfully aware of his wildly beating heart and the marvellousness of the moment: “I do love you, Sherlock,” he said hoarsely, terrified and elated at the same time.

When Sherlock met his eyes, John saw that he already knew; of course he did. But he was smiling as well, and he didn't look so worn out anymore. “I love you, too,” he all but whispered, and for a moment, they just looked at each other with this newly gained awareness, still confused and maybe a bit daunted but also tremendously happy. Shaking, John raised his free hand and gently caressed Sherlock's face: “Are we really doing this?” he asked.

Sherlock blinked:“Unless this is my Mind Palace, I think we are.”

“God, no, it's not! We are!"

Ignoring Sherlock's raised eyebrow, John leaned in for a kiss. Sherlock's lips were warm and soft and solid and wonderful, and for a long time, they just enjoyed each other's proximity. When they eventually broke apart for the first time, both of them smiled, but they didn't pause long. It felt like a dam had finally broken, the logical consequence of an event that had long since begun, and both of them were eager to explore. John gently pulled Sherlock further up onto the bed with him and slid his hand underneath the dressing gown, well aware that the other was still naked underneath, and caressed Sherlock's deliciously soft skin, eliciting a string of equally delicious shudders.

Unhurriedly, keenly, they undressed each other, concentrating on the other's body with abandon, respectively becoming acquainted with how the other smelled and tasted and felt, where he was ticklish and what he enjoyed.

 

Later, they just lay in each other's arms, sleepy and pleased with how things had turned out.

“See,” Sherlock murmured, “this particular fall turned out rather well.”

John snorted: “Still no reason to make it a habit.”

Sherlock nestled even closer to him: “I don't intend to,” he replied. “Twice is enough.”

“By all means,” John muttered, suddenly hesitating: “Sherlock. You didn't do it on purpose today, did you? In order to... initiate something?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock replied, managing to sound indignant.

"So it wasn't a game or anything this time?"

" _Please_."

John hummed: “All right. I wouldn't have put it past you, is all.”

“I think it initiated itself,” Sherlock said serenely.

John frowned only a little; he was too comfortable and happy to mull it over right then. With a contented sigh, he pressed a kiss on Sherlock's hair: “Fortunately for us, it did,” he murmured, never seeing the small, complacent smile on Sherlock's face.

 

**The End**

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I'm not a native English speaker, therefore I apologize for any mistakes.


End file.
